“…The lonely he makes part of a family…” Psalm 68:6 TPT

“You’re going where?” A flabbergasted me asked.

“To Missouri.”replied my friend Marc.

“Missouri…Why the heck would you go to Missouri?” the California in me could not comprehend why anyone would choose to spend a month of their summer anywhere BUT California.

“My friends are starting a horse ranch for foster kids and they need help with the horses someone just gave them. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it… you would really love them.”

At the time I was working for a private school, teaching fourth and fifth-grade Bible and TA’ing for the remainder of the day. The school was nice enough, the kids were fun, and the pay was great for a college grad who didn’t know what she wanted to do. But the days lacked internal joy. I was raised to work hard and I had no problem sticking with a job to pay bills; this paid better than the barista job I previously held, so here I was giving it the old college try…wishing deep down I was still in college.

The bedroom in my parents’ house began to shrink. Closing in on me with parental expectations meeting my strong desire for freedom. I didn’t know if this was the path I wanted to walk. Set expectations of teaching in my own classroom, running things my way, and shaping young minds with endless hours of prep and love.

There was one thing I did know and knew it with absolute instinct. When they offered me a kindergarten position the inside of me cringed. An instantaneous curling withdrawal in the middle of my gut, made me pause and look at this teaching path I was on.

Teaching is a calling.

A noble, beautiful calling.

My dad was a special ed- teacher so I grew up with a behind-the-scenes view of its demands; its highs and lows. After teaching even a short time, I have the deepest respect for the profession and all who answer the call.

Teaching young kids is not my calling.

What I am even more certain of, is if it were my calling, elementary-age kids would not be it.

After graduating I had one plan, knowing one thing as sure as my diploma; that adventure was calling and I must answer. To answer that yearning with Jesus as the center was the ultimate dream, and Y.W.A.M. (Youth With A Mission) turned out to be my solution. 

That summer after graduation, I spent six months in Northern Ireland. Learning about myself, my faith and the “troubles” of the magical country I was living in.  To date the Emerald Island still holds a piece of my heart. She is as magical as every image you have ever seen and to live in her rolling green hills was to be in a place swimming with adventure.

Before our trip was up, a group of us chatted about what we wanted to do when we returned home. Sitting on the top-bunk of our community room, surrounded by friends, I randomly threw out –

“I’d love to work with horses, maybe on a horse ranch somewhere.”

My experience with horses was the equivalent of one-week horse camps every summer. So, I was for sure equipped to work on an actual horse ranch. 

Yellowstone, here I come.

“You should meet them, why don’t you come out for a week while I’m there this summer?” Marc offered.

“Well…why not?”- was my reply.

The next week I asked Marc for Dana and Brians’s email and shot off a wild letter asking if they needed help, and how would they feel about me coming out for a while to see if it was a fit? 

By coming out to help, I’m pretty sure I suggested me moving out there after Marc’s summer was done. (Anything to avoid the 9-5 job chasing me down.) 

I was part trying to escape a cubicle, part trying be free of my parents’ house, part running away from the teaching position offered to me, and part saying yes to another beautiful adventure. 

Either way, God’s hand was on this crazy exchange. 

A few weeks later my ticket was purchased and I was on a flight to Ozark.

You know the feeling of coming home? 

That cozy emotion of settledness. 

The one that greets you when you open your front door after a long day at work. As the door swings in the familiarity of your space welcomes you. Comforting you with four walls of security. 

Four walls that are yours.

Your safe space. 

Your piece of known.

A place where you can be, rest, veg. Let down your walls physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Just exist in any way you desire. Sometimes, it’s almost unconscious, you simply walk in, and once strange walls have transformed into home.

For anyone who has moved, you know this feeling takes time to develop. It takes time to build an understanding of the newness of a new place. Time in a new home is the recipe for breaking it in. Till slowly the walls soften and turn into a well-worn pair of jeans. 

Never before had I walked into someone’s house and felt this settled contentment wash over me.

Never before had a stranger’s home felt like my home with such ease that I was sure I had been there before.

I walked into the Lopez house and was greeted like family. 

I walked into the Lopez home and knew I was home.

My heart knew them like it knew my own family.

That first introduction was filled with fast offered bear hugs and loud affection. I knew, resolutely, that this family was a gift. 

That they had a high calling and blessing to match.

An obvious anointing to be a home for those whose homes were broken. To be family to those whose family was shattered, to be a space for broken hearts to mend.

To be a safe nest for those whose experience of “home” was the opposite of security. 

Theirs was a family facing out. A sweet extension of our Father’s heart on active display to any and all who walked in their front door.

That week continued to confirm my immediate feelings. With 100% certainty, I asked to stay and a few months later, with all my belongings stuffed in the back of my Jeep, I road-tripped from California to my new home in Missouri.

To be a part of what they were building. 

To be a part of this family whose hearts were united in purpose, driven by God’s dreams, and fueled by the love of our Heavenly Father.

To, in some small way, join in what the Lord was doing in this rocky, middle-America state.

Looking back I know God heard the deep cry of my heart. He was there in Northern Ireland when a 21-year-old verbalized a crazy dream of working with horses. He was there, He heard, and He matched my dream with a couple who had a real need for someone to help them.

How all these threads, spread across states and continents, crescendoed in our meeting could only be orchestrated by the hand of the Great Designer. His hand was held in the dreaming of Dogwood Ranch so it is no surprise that His mark of love is woven into every detail of the ranch. Pulling people across states to be his hands and feet.

This organization was birthed from God’s heart for the lonely, the broken, the abused, the discarded.  It was designed with family, for family and I can say that I have been a first-hand recipient of their love. 

Love given from two generations of families uniting under this call, answering this heavenly directive. The Crowells, the Lopez’s, and all of Dogwood Ranch, have become my family and it is an honor to partner with them. To share a piece of their story and invite you to join them as they serve.

To read more about Dogwood Ranch and their ministries head over to https://www.dogwoodranch.org

*This styled shoot was in NM. Not MO but The horse and beautiful youth felt appropriate.